


And A Dark Wind Blows

by ClementineStarling



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, PWP, Smut, Sub!John, mild breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 07:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2613008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It is one of those places where the horizon bleeds into the land and the buildings huddle together like a memory of corralled wagons. A dusty, god-forsaken spot between now and nowhere, barely touched by civilisation; the ground still exhales the foreignness of nature here, untamed and perilous. John can sense it the moment he climbs out of his truck, the pure dark energy of the land. Its evil is raw and erratic, so unlike anything he could ever hope to defeat. It bears no semblance to the presence of monsters, to that electric charge in the air that makes your hair stand on end and your nerves crackle. Nothing like that at all. On the contrary, something about the sensation is oddly soothing, deep and quiet and night-calm – like the lure of slumber and the solace of death, the ancient, irrevocable certainty that ultimately everything ends. The wind sings it here, the tune of mortality, a lullaby in the tall grass. And John is inclined to simply give in.</i>
</p><p>John takes a small break from the road and meets a girl in a bar. Things develop just as you'd expect them to. But perhaps also not quite... ;)</p><p>Sidenote regarding crossoverishness: I borrowed an idea from Richard Kadrey's Sandman Slim universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And A Dark Wind Blows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saiphor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saiphor/gifts).



> This has been simmering in my virtual desk drawer for nearly half a year and it needs to get out of there now! Out out out!  
> And what better occasion than saiphor's temporal escape from film production hell?!!
> 
> Random other thoughts:  
> Sometimes it feels like I'm beating the poor language to a purplish pulp. If you enjoy this anyway, let me know. ;)
> 
> Speaking of abuse: the title is taken from the lyrics of Godspeed You! Black Emperor's [Dead Flag Blues](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-aLjup934Rk)
> 
> Speaking of abuse, part 2: I hope I did not miss anything triggerwise. I feel this is consensual which often is an issue with my stories. But if you don't agree or notice sth that might be problematic - I'd be glad if you told me! Thanks.
> 
>  
> 
> **It's been pointed out that the story is kind of dubconnish for John because of magic/enchantment.**

It is one of those places where the horizon bleeds into the land and the buildings huddle together like a memory of corralled wagons. A dusty, god-forsaken spot between now and nowhere, barely touched by civilisation; the ground still exhales the foreignness of nature here, untamed and perilous. John can sense it the moment he climbs out of his truck, the pure dark energy of the land. Its evil is raw and erratic, so unlike anything he could ever hope to defeat. It bears no semblance to the presence of monsters, to that electric charge in the air that makes your hair stand on end and your nerves crackle. Nothing like that at all. On the contrary, something about the sensation is oddly soothing, deep and quiet and night-calm – like the lure of slumber and the solace of death, the ancient, irrevocable certainty that ultimately everything ends. The wind sings it here, the tune of mortality, a lullaby in the tall grass.  
And John is inclined to simply give in.

The last weeks have been straining. Always on the move, always on edge. It’s gets to you after a while. The tiredness is drenching his body, soaking the muscle to the bone, the exhaustion so dense it makes it difficult to move. It almost physically hurts not to fall on the saggy motel bed and melt into the mattress. But sleep holds no deliverance. If anything it harbours the terrors that dwell at the bottom of his mind. It is the one place he cannot escape his fears. They will come toppling down on him, pinning him like needles pin the wings of a butterfly. And then, when he’s breathless and unable to move, the nightmares will reach up from his unconscious, greedy and vile, and pull him into their realm, where his sons scream in agony, limbs torn and souls shattered, and his wife hangs from the ceiling, her belly dripping with blood.

The dreams have never been worse, not even twenty years ago, when the pain was fresh and throbbing like an open wound. It must mean he is close - finally closing in on the demon that killed his wife - but also that he is weakened, defences low and vigour lower. His strength has been seeping away for years, slowly at first, which he ascribed to the strain of hunting, the life on the road, the constant worries about his sons. But now it seems to be more than that. Like something is eating at his soul, constantly, until one day he’ll be nothing but an empty shell, wired together by pure spite and obsession.

*

John Winchester feels a hundred years old when he shuffles over the motel parking lot to the rundown bar. Like a moth drawn to the flame he’s trudging towards the neon signs promising steaks and burgers and pie. He could have used a shave and a shower, too, but first he has to eat. Some honest food, no bag of potato chips or half-melted chocolate bars or whatever else he might find on the bottom of the glove compartment. He’s not picky these days, not when he cannot ignore the angry growl of his stomach any longer. Sometimes even a couple of beers will have to suffice.

Strange how without the obligation to lead by example he has found it increasingly difficult to stick to a sensible routine of meals. Only recently has he realised how much his eating habits have begun to resemble Dean’s and that he has lost several pounds of hard-earned muscle. And he remembered the extensive talks about proper nutrition and the importance of proteins and vitamins he used to give and how Dean always rolled his eyes and Sammy punched his older brother in the ribs for his ignorance; still they were quite united in their complaint about the amount of oatmeal and orange juice he used to feed them - for lack of funds or provisions. But it was good advice after all and he would have been smart to act on it, too.

The smallest of all regrets, he thinks as he pushes open the doors of the bar.

The building is more of a shack than a proper house. In the very beginning, before it’s begun to spawn rooms and hallways, it must have been really small. Now it sprawls out over the dusty earth like an overgrown creature. Rough, greyish planks nailed to the front, the windows leering. The dimness continues behind the doors, night seeping in from the outside. The walls breathe cellar mustiness and the sour scent of spilled beer. Something about it makes John’s hair stand on end in alarm. It feels like a lair, like something hides in here, lurks in the shadows, something ancient as the night and even darker. Past the hallway however there are more people than John has anticipated, crouching over pool tables, playing dart, drinking, chatting; and the further he advances into the building, the more they fill every corner with their stuffy, smelly warmth. It disperses some of the gloom hanging over the place, pushing it back, behind the doors of John’s mind, just like the light of a fire might keep the night at bay for a while.

He finds himself a quiet place at the far end of the bar, where the wood is reassuring under his forearms and the bar tender close. He orders beer and steak, some vegetables and salad at the side, for resolutions, and all of it is fairly good.

He sits there as if it’s a form of meditation, his hand loosely curled around the beer bottle and later a whiskey glass. The music and the chatter become a blur in the background, a vague notion of humankind and John loses himself in thought. He thinks about his boys, about Dean’s strained voice on his mail box, how it betrayed all of his desperation and edginess and fear. About Sam’s angry accusations when last he saw him and about the grief he must have experienced at the loss of his girlfriend. He wishes more than anything that he could talk to them, be with them, but he knows it’d be too dangerous. He can’t risk dragging them into the spotlight; they are in enough danger already. And yet their absence is the hollow spot around which the darkness keeps spinning, the void at the bottom of his heart.

John drinks to fill this hole, not only today, but today with intent.

He’s drinking himself into a good night’s sleep, safeguarded by half a bottle of cheap booze to keep the nightmares at bay. It’s a luxury he rarely allows himself. You need to be sharp on a hunt, alert. Being slow can be deadly. And you’re damn slow when you’re drunk or high or hung over. There were times when he used other stuff to keep up, but there are downsides to that too. An exaggerated opinion of yourself can be equally deadly. Also it’s not that he has trouble staying awake, on the contrary.

Still, no matter how you look at it, this is his first break in weeks and if he does not get to sleep like a normal person for once, he will simply fade into zombie mode before long and that is neither safe nor healthy either.

John drains his glass and without thinking he slides it a couple of inches away from him over the bar, signalling for a refill. The bar tender does not even blink when he pours him the whiskey. John nods his thanks and grabs for the glass as if it were a life line. It is already smudged with his fingerprints and the traces of his lips. In a decent bar he would get a fresh glass with every drink, but he could not care less. All that matters is the oblivion that lingers in the glass like trapped sunlight. He swirls the liquid and thinks of a sort of happiness that is not to be found at the bottom of a bottle.

*

A person is squeezing past, towards the bar, a warm body next to his. A girl as his nose tells him. She smells like fresh grass and apples. A bit too much maybe, and a bit too synthetic, but it fits her appearance as a quick glance confirms. She’s a cute blonde wearing faded jeans that have been cut into shorts. Her white blouse nicely brings out her tan. About Dean’s age, he estimates. Pretty. Nothing his mind should linger upon. But just as he’s decided to ignore her, she’s leaning into him.

„I wanna dance“, she says, a doll’s pout on her painted lips. He can feel her breasts pressing against his shoulder, soft, pliant flesh. It is a bit too much familiarity for someone he has not even met before. Something that flashes ‚hooker’ like neon signs, and paying for sex is against his rules, so John does not even look at her when he replies:

„We all want something, honey. Don’t mean we get it.“ His fingers curl tighter around his glass. He raises it to his lips and takes a sip, the booze gentle like hellfire in his throat. It’s a gesture designed to signal lack of interest, but she’s stubborn, looks at him as if he’s Prince Charming himself, and when he sets the glass back onto the counter, she lays her hand on his forearm, just where his rolled up sleeve is baring skin. For a moment he considers pulling his arm away, but the touch is surprisingly pleasant. It reminds him of how starved he is of human company. He rarely even talks to people these days, let alone allows them to touch him. So at last John shifts on his stool and turns towards her, but not even macho-bulk and faded flannel and three-day stubble seem to scare her away.

„Aww, come on, just one dance“, she says, batting mascara-heavy lashes. Her hand is still on his arm, he can sense the faintest pressure of her fingertips on his skin, like she is egging him on to follow her …

Listen, darling, he wants to say. Why don’t you go looking for someone your own age? Or at least someone with cash that pays for more than a couple of drinks at a cheap bar. Someone who feels like spending money on pussy. But he holds his tongue.

„Alright then“, he hears himself saying instead. „One dance.“

The girl jumps with joy as if she were ten years old, but before he can regret his decision, she has taken him by the hand and is dragging him towards the dance floor.

It is a Saturday evening and there are actually some couples dancing; tangled bodies, cheap perfume, people aging ahead of their time, worn by labour and boredom, stretched thin like a shirt that’s been washed too often. John feels suffocated by the closeness of this world and yet he can’t help the faint sting of envy. He thinks of Mary. Hell, after all this time, he still wishes he could hold her. With her any shabby bar at the road-side would be heaven.

The girl wraps her arms around his neck, pressing herself flush against him. She feels strange in his embrace, so different from Mary, but still he finds himself imagining it is his wife he is dancing with. Like time travel, twenty-five years back. John closes his eyes and holds her tight as they move with the music, his hands casually splayed on her lower back. She doesn’t smell like Mary, but to be honest it has been so long, John can scarcely remember how his wife used to smell. It does not take long till the song runs out and he tries to untangle himself from her arms but she will not let go and then he thinks the better of it. After all this isn’t sex, only dancing. He has no rule to forbid him that.  
They keep moving with the tunes and after a while John feels how the tension is fading, mellowing out. Their bodies are like waves on the sea, afloat with the rhythm, and a couple of minutes later her fingers begin to thread through the hair of his neck, stroking, caressing, easing him into the inevitable. He does not even realise it happens until she has pulled his head down and her lips are on his. Sweet, soft, tender lips. They nip at his mouth, tentative, and he is too surprised not to return the kiss. It’s nearly innocent at first, dry and fleeting brushes of mouth against mouth. Then her tongue pushes his lips apart and he tastes her properly. Cigarettes and beer, a hint of spearmint, something below for which he has no words. Something dark and alluring that makes his spine tingle and the heat pool in his belly.

John allows himself the bliss for a moment, the sugar-sweet sensation that travels throughout his body with every gentle slide of tongue over tongue. The kiss is still languid and cautious, he lets her set the pace and his hands just rest at her hips, lightly, without any urge. But John knows that soon the sweetness will turn into something entirely different, something sinister and wicked, like hunger and greed and aggression, something that won’t be appeased until the need is satisfied. The years have left no gentleness in him. Mary’s husband is long gone and sometimes he is not even sure anymore for whom he grieves, for a love lost or for a life tainted and soiled. You can only hunt for so long before becoming a predator yourself, all hard edges and determination.

These days John is only too aware of how thin the layer actually is that keeps the beast inside. Too often he feels it writhing under his skin, snapping jaws and sharp teeth. And God, how he tries to cling to what is good and right and proper but every day it is harder, every day the animal seems to gain ground. The alcohol curls in his blood and threatens to blot out all reason and that’s when he finally moves and with all the control he can muster and all the tenderness, he pushes her away.

„Thanks for the dance“, he rumbles, hating how his voice betrays the turmoil in his guts, how it is thick and rough with arousal.

He tries to ignore how lovely she looks, slightly flushed and bright-eyed already, and how her breasts swell with every intake of breath. But when he turns to leave, her hand catches his forearm, and she is a lot stronger than she looks. Her fingers are like claws and the beast stirs at their touch.

„Don’t go“, she whispers and somehow, against all odds, it carries over the music and the chatter. It reminds him of the lullaby in the tall grass and he feels its pull, darker and softer than the keen tug of desire, a promise of comfort and emptiness. John stops to listen carefully to the beast inside him, but it appears tame and drowsy like a large dog that waits to be stroked, and perhaps he is safe after all; and once again he lets himself be dragged away by her hand, just as if under a spell.

She says her name is Sally, when she pushes him against the wall of a deserted hallway and moulds herself to his body, every fucking curve against his hard muscle. Sally. A nice, inconspicuous name that will fade from your memory like the apple-pie you had for breakfast. Sweet apple-pie Sally. She kisses him again, no less tenderly than before, and he begs her sweetness will be enough to drown out the violent craving, hopes his body won’t slip from control. John wills his hands to be gentle as they roam her back, light, brushing strokes that still manage to press her further into him and he groans at the feel of her weight against his cock that is already hard and impatient in his jeans. She giggles into his mouth and grinds herself against him on purpose and this time a growl escapes his throat, a low and warning sound that’s supposed to make her blood freeze, but she just laughs again. John begins to wonder how even for a moment he could have thought this to be a good idea. He is tense now and his hands dig into her hips. But then her forefinger covers his mouth and he feels this rush of calm again. „Easy“, he hears her saying and then she’s pushing her fingers beyond the lush curve of his lips into the wetness of his mouth. It’s a strangely dominant gesture but John finds he likes it, likes it a lot and his tongue curls around her fingers and without meaning to he sucks. Her smile is all appreciation and a new kind of warmth wells up from his belly. She withdraws her fingers and puts them into her own mouth, licking John’s saliva from the digits and something coils tight at the base of his spine.

„I’m not safe to be with“, he rasps but she only smiles and shakes her head.

„Don’t worry“, she says and there is a shine to her eyes that simply makes him believe her. Her hands tug at his shirt, then slip under it and glide over the taut muscles of his stomach, spreading excitement over his skin and also a deep sense of quiet. Like the highway at midnight, nothing but the headlights on the concrete before him, road marks white like surf, and the soothing buzz of the engine in the dark. John shakes the vision from his mind before he answers. „Not here“, he says and Sally nods.

*

Something is slightly off. It’s an inkling, somewhere at the fringes of his mind and against all better judgment, he shoves it aside as he opens the door wide and lets her step over the threshold before him. The room is dimly lit, the bedside lamp still on, shedding its yellowish light on the worn carpet. He hates coming home to a dark house. Hell knows what might be lurking in the shadows. Now he wishes he’d switched the lights off. They’re less than flattering on this dump.

„Welcome to my highway palace“, John says in a weak attempt to disguise an apology.

„That’s exactly what it is“, Sally says and to his surprise she sounds like she means it. Her hands travel lightly over walls and furniture, appreciative even, just like she has touched him only minutes before and again there is a weird sense of envy stirring in his guts. He snaps the door shut behind him and walks into the room, unsure what to do. Usually at this point he would be kissing and groping, passionate tangle of bodies eager for more contact, feverish fingers seeking for skin. But this is nearly businesslike. John still waits for her to talk about money and at this point he’s more than willing to pay her, he is too far into this not to go through with it. He imagines fucking her against the wall or bent over the table and his skin seems too tight all of a sudden, he feels the beast stretching under it, straining against its bonds.

„You want a drink?“ he forces himself to say and his hands clench at his sides with nearly unbearable tension. She sits on the bed that squeaks under her weight, and a glimmer from the neon lights outside seems to catch in her eyes.

„I want you to strip“, she says and tilts her head.

John laughs, half out of embarrassment, half out of nerves, but he sees no reason why he should not comply, it seems like a sensible thing to ask. He smiles when his fingers rise to the buttons of his flannel shirt. Slowly he undoes the first, the second. He wears a t-shirt under it, so it’s not that exciting, but Sally bites her lower lip nonetheless – long before he bares skin.

He may have lost weight, but he’s still strong, muscles smooth and hard on his wide frame. It’s no show-off-bulk conjured up by a bit of weight lifting. John Winchester has earned every bit of his strength by labour and by war and he wears their marks with pride, a tight-woven net of pain that covers his body. Old silvery scars and recent ones that are still angry and red and fresh bruises and barely healed cuts. Sally does not flinch at their sight, she just looks at him, eyes starbright and piercing, and her gaze makes him shudder. He has not been looked at like this for a very, very long time.

John kicks of his boots before he opens the buckle of his belt, the buttons of his jeans, he slides them off, along with his underwear and his socks, and then he is naked in the soft light, broad shoulders, slim hips, long, powerful legs. She licks her lips as her eyes reach his cock that is standing to attention, full and heavy and flushed.

„Come here“, she says and beckons him forwards. John comes closer, looming over her, still fighting the itch in his fingers to grab her, throw her on her back and climb between her thighs. But he keeps still and waits for her to touch him. Only she doesn’t. Instead she says: „Kneel.“

The beast snarls at the impertinence of the demand but John drops to the floor, just between her spread legs, as if pushed down by a heavy hand. He has never been aware that he wanted this until now that it happens and it makes his stomach twist with excitement.

„Take off my boots“, she says and again he obeys, pulling the leather from her feet, then peeling away the socks. He runs his large hands over her calves as if it is a gesture of worship, a special thing that he is allowed to touch her. He even leans in to kiss her ankle, a chaste, humble brush of lips against the tender skin that elicits a pleased chuckle.

„Now my blouse“, she says and his fingers tremble a little when they’re set to the task. A part of him still wants to tear open the garment and claw at the flesh beneath, mouth sucking viciously while his weight pins her to the mattress and then he’d slip into her… The image is like poison, intoxicating, dizzying, and John gasps for air in the too small room. But when he’s opened the last button and slid the fabric over her shoulders, his hands fall back to his side, patient and docile, as he waits for her next command.

The satisfaction of her hum crawls over his skin like a caress, at least his body responds accordingly, with goose bumps and trembles and the spark of nerves.

„Shorts“, she whispers and he helps her wriggling out of them, and then she’s nearly naked, except for her lace bra and thong, but they are flimsy and transparent, merely an idea of clothing. White lace, not black or red as he would have thought, and for some strange reason that’s even more exciting. His hands long to cup her breasts, rough palms teasing her nipples through the delicate fabric, but still he does not move.

The room is silent but for his breathing but the laboured, ragged drags of air he draws into his lungs seem disproportionately loud in his ears.

She reaches out and presses a hand to his chest, into the dark hair over his heart, as if listening to its thrum. Then she leans closer, raising her fingers to his mouth. Her thumb is tracing the outline of his lower lip and this time he doesn’t wait for her to push it into his mouth, but licks at it, greedy and eager, swallows it with all the lewdness he is capable of.

„Good boy“, she murmurs, approval sweet and thick as honey in her voice. „I guess you earned yourself a taste of my pussy. Would you like that, John?“ Her words are like a spell, they bind him and touch him like fingers, verbal pulls on his cock. He swallows hard, pupils inkblot-wide, and nods.

„No hands“, she says and he finds himself tugging at her thong with his teeth, licking around the lace, then finally deep, dark, secret slickness he dips his tongue into

It’s been too long that he’s been with a woman but this isn’t something you forget. He used to be good at this and he still is. The faint tremors in her thighs soon bear witness to his skill, and her nails are sharp against his scalp, sharper than they have any right to be. A sound is rising in his chest, half hum, half primal growl, and he can feel her smile through her body, crazy as it sounds.

He keeps up the pace, hungry lips and eager strokes tracing her pleasure, feeding from the delight that he gives her. “Like this, just like this”, she murmurs, but he barely takes notice. It’s her body he’s listening too, the shudders and shivers, the jerks and spasms.

Something shifts again. Like reality is shimmering, illusion peeling away, and underneath, he tastes her true nature. Power dense like a thunderstorm’s, crackling in the air. Like the magic of sleep, she’s drawing him in, a poison that calms and stimulates at the same time. When she finally comes against his mouth, it’s a wave of sparks running through him, as if feeling her satisfaction as his own. The illusion dissolves after that, and John would laugh at the fabrications of his mind if he were not drunk with pleasure and want.

They stay like this for a while, a tangle of heavy limbs and lust-muddled brains. Sally keeps her fingers pressed into his skull and John leans his cheek into her inner thigh, the stubble harsh against the softness of her skin. Her smell is all around him, opium-sweet, inebriant. He takes a deep breath, sucks her scent like smoke into his lungs. He wants more of this, more of her, wants to be inside her and feel her tightening around him.

She knows this he’s certain of it, like she can read his mind, and she likes the idea, writes her approval into his hard neck and shoulders with the tips of her fingers. “I will fuck you, John”, she whispers, “Till you can’t remember your own name anymore.”

It doesn’t even sound silly. Not through the arousal roaring in his ears and pulsing through his veins with persistent urgency.  
“Stand”, she says and again he obeys, mute and biddable like a puppet drawn by its strings.

And then she stands too, her body almost slithering along his, not even inches from the heat of his skin. Her fingers rise to the clasp of her bra and with ease she undoes it, shrugs out of the garment. Then her hands glide downwards, over the plane of her stomach to the waistband of her thong and pushes it over her hips. John holds his breath for the time it takes for the fabric to fall to the floor and his hands long to touch and to tease, yet he does not move until he’s told to.  
“Kiss me”, she says and by God, that’s what he’s been waiting for. He kisses her like he’s wanted to all along, frantic and greedy, just like he’s been eating her pussy. His hands buried in her hair, he drags her into his bulk, pressing her curves against his naked skin and he moans at the pleasure of it. It’s like slaking a thirst that has been burning his insides. And she lets him do as he likes for a minute or two, allows his hands to travel her body, grab her ass and pull her closer, grinding himself against the wetness between her legs.

She waits just till the idea forms in his head to lift her up and wrap her legs around him, push into her like he’s pushing his tongue into her mouth, before she speaks again.  
“Lie down for me, John”, she whispers and to his amazement, his body obeys her without resistance, without thought. He lets go of her and gets on the bed, his eyes glued to her body.

When he’s on his back, she crawls over him, a predator closing in on its prey, and he wonders if he imagines the sharp-white flash of teeth before she lowers her head and rolls a rubber over his cock with wet tongue and experienced lips. He gasps at the touch, as if it’s just then that he remembers how hard he is and how eager to sink into her. As if it hasn’t been the only thought hammering through his head for the better part of an hour. Distantly he still wonders how she can control his need with such ease, when it’s so violent and raw he fears it might break through his skin.

Compared to his feverish heat, she appears nearly cool when she lowers herself onto him, stretching deliciously around his thick cock. The pleasure is sharp, almost painful, and John bites his lip not to gasp or curse or groan. He looks at her, at the way her features contort as she takes him in, a grimace of passion, and he rolls his hips, only slightly but it’s enough to get the desired reaction: a surprised moan, low and breathless and so erotic, he cannot help but repeat the move, even though her fingers have begun to dig into his skin warningly. Perhaps her control over him is slipping after all.

“I’ve not given you permission to move”, she hisses when he pushes into her again, harder this time, holding her hips steady with his large hands.

“Perhaps you need to teach me obedience then”, he retorts with another snap of his hips.

He’s not prepared for her fingers to close around his neck with astonishing strength but he sees the question in her eyes and it does not take him long to decide if he likes it. “Just like this”, he groans and thrusts into her and her grip tightens in response and her body clenches around him.

This is better than he could have imagined, a struggle for control he’s intending to lose, though not quite yet. He still enjoys the sharpness of her nails, their punishing scrape nearly breaking skin, and the weight of her hand against his throat, squeezing just enough to make the air precious and scarce.  
And there is the pull again, the marrow-deep darkness sucking at his soul, a promise of oblivion that enfolds further with every gasp for breath and every move of defiance. Eventually he will be swallowed by it, dragged down and drowned, but he doubts he’ll regret it. There’s nothing to regret anymore.

The dim room seems even darker now and she appears to glow on top of him, like haloed by headlights. Perhaps the lack of oxygen is already clouding his vision, turning her into an apparition, a goddess of the highway. She looks down at him, with this odd smile of approval that makes him want to please her, do her proud. In a mad, twisted way it’s a feeling resembling love, but not like he knows it. It’s no dopamine high of soft sunlight and fresh linen. This is submission and worship and surrender. Through the building dizziness he imagines her true shape, looming, ancient, a spirit of the lands. He should be afraid, but he isn’t. All he feels is the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears and the sharpness of pleasure like a knife to the guts.

Then finally the fight has gone out of him, snuffed out like a candle’s flame, and she lets go of his throat and the vision fades with the air streaming back into his lungs like fire. Slowly the burning sensation blurs out and a sense of relief floods his brain, taking him higher, ever higher. They find a rhythm, rocking into each other, until he barely feels her anymore. He is all numb but for this one place inside him, pinpoint-small and sharp and hot, like all of his existence is drawn together, for one last flare before darkness falls.  
He doesn’t think of Mary, does not think of hunting or catching or killing. In his nearly burnt-out shell of a body he’s all alone, fading. It’s an odd sensation. Post-existence in the fog of oblivion. She grinds her herself against him one more time, and then he’s falling. Deeper and further down.

Dying might feel like this, only reversed, because the numbness shatters once orgasm explodes like fireworks in his brain, sharp, silvery, yanking him back into his body, into all the delicious experience of nerves and skin and flesh.

She leans down in this moment of crisis, licking the broken moans from his lips, as if feeding on his pleasure, sucking the tension from him and all the strength with it. John feels the grasp of his fingers weaken on her hips, hands going limp and feeble. Exhaustion surges like a storm wave, rolling over him, pulling him down into an ocean of sleep. You need to go, he wants to say, because he can’t be asleep next to a stranger, it’s against all of his rules. But somehow he cannot form the words anymore and without meaning to, he slips into a deep, dreamless slumber.

*

Dawn is not far when he wakes again into the yellow lamp light. She’s still at his side, a cigarette between her fingers, blowing smoke rings while watching him out of dark, beady eyes. „I like the curl of your lashes“, she whispers, „and the way you smile. These dimples…“ She reaches out to draw a trail through the stubble „…they mellow out the sadness in your eyes.“

Her breath is warm against his ear, hot even, like the air boiling over a desert highway. And John wonders if he imagines the faint smell of gasoline hanging in the room. It makes him light-headed and dizzy.

“What a waste it would be…”, she croons, hand wandering along the line of his neck and over the sharp edge of his collarbone. „You should stop looking for _Yellow Eyes_ while you still can."

He does not even think before his hand closes around her wrist. „What did you just say?“

She just looks at him, not in the least surprised about his reaction, but there is an odd flicker in her eyes, like the reflection of headlights. It’s too brief to be sure, but enough to jerk John from his postcoital haze.

He shakes her, not too gently. „Answer me“, he demands in a voice that lacks all of its seductive softness. It’s deep and harsh and unforgiving but she still seems unperturbed.

„I gave you a piece of advice to save your gorgeous ass. But as it appears you rather not leave your road to ruin. Not that I’m surprised. They say that you’re a stubborn bastard, John Winchester.“

Maybe he’s been under a spell she doesn’t bother to keep up anymore because finally his hunter instincts kick in again and he gropes around for a weapon, her wrist still in his grasp.

“Christo”, he mutters but her eyes don’t get any darker and she just laughs.

“Please”, she says “I’m no demon. What do you think of me?”

“What are you then?” John hisses and shoves his blade up against the tender skin of her neck.

She laughs a small girl giggle, pearly and a little fake and for the blink of an eye, her act works its spell again, but John is no rookie, he can see through it now.

“You really haven’t a clue, have you?”, she sniggers as if this is all one big joke. When he doesn’t move an inch, face like stone, she leans forwards, into the sharp edge of his knife, not minding the blood that wells up red-hot under the steel. The girl-act shatters and John catches a glimpse of what’s under it. It takes all of his self-discipline not to recoil in horror.

“Well, you really know how to flatter a girl”, she says. “Life is hard out here in the middle of fucking nowhere. We’re not as glamorous as the city girls. We’re simple and mean and hungry.” She flashes her teeth and laughs again when John flinches at the dazzling-white sharpness.

“Come on – do you really think that I’d have waited till now if I wanted to hurt you?”

Without effort she wiggles out of his grasp and gets to her feet, still naked, still glorious. Somewhere in the back of his mind, there is something stirring again and she knows it, her triumphant smile tells everything about it.

“Don’t fight it, John, you’re in love with the road. It’s like we’ve been married for years.” She leans over to angle for her thong and to his disgust John feels his pulse quicken at the sight of her, stretching naked, breath-taking temptation.

She laughs. “Just didn’t want to miss out on the chance to consummate the marriage, since you’ve been acting all suicidal lately.”

“So what are you then?” he asks, trying to sound more impatient than nervous.

“You’ll figure it out eventually”, she says and picks up another piece of garment from the floor. It’s the last one.

“Alright then”, she says cheerfully. “Call me if you’re in the mood for a rematch. This was fun.” And then, without even bothering to dress, she’s out of the door. 

A minute later an engine roars to life. John can feel her leaving, her presence dissolving, but he lies still for an hour, maybe more, and waits and listens to the fading night.

Dawn is in full pinkish bloom when he finally gets up and packs his things. He’s still got a long road ahead.

**Author's Note:**

> *  
> „Every city has a Mustang Sally. Every town and jungle village with a dirt path. She’s a spirit of the road, an old and powerful one.“ / Richard Kadrey, Aloha From Hell  
> *  
> I just borrowed this idea and I'm actually a little sad that I could not come up with more references to RK's awesome Sandman Slim series.


End file.
